"As you can see," he said, turning to me, "I have more urgent matters to attend to. This may be a blessing for you, because I think you've said enough, don't you? I can sympathize with your wanting to help your friend, but that is enough. Signora Leonard has already told us you had nothing to do with this. If you persist in this fabrication, I'm afraid I will have to charge you with mischief, and you will get to spend more time with your friend, in circumstances you might not like. Now, I'm going to do you a favor, and terminate this interview. Thank you for coming in to assist us with our investigation, signora." He rose from his chair and extended his hand, then walked to the door of his office and opened it, ushering me through. "See that Signora McClintoch finds her way out," he said to the young policewoman. There seemed nothing else to be done, at least nothing in Arezzo.
But I wasn't giving up. First I went to get myself some traveling money. I was going to find Crawford Lake and make him come forward to clear Lola's name, and I was going to use his money to do it. I went back to my hotel, got out my laptop, and logged on to the Internet. I went to Marzocco Financial Online and entered my account number, 14M24S, and then my password, Chimera.
"Access denied," the screen said. "Either the user ID or the password is incorrect. Please try again." I tried again. Same response. I tried a third time, and got booted right out of the web site. It seemed pretty clear that Lake was distancing himself as far as he could from this fiasco.
Furious, I stomped out of the hotel. I'd think about this later. In the meantime, I had things to do. First, I drove back to Cortona and paid a visit to S ignore Salvatore Vitali, Lola's lawyer. I wanted to meet him in person, rather than simply phoning, to decide what to do.
A very pleasant-looking man opened the door. He was in his midsixties maybe, about Lola's age or a little older, dressed in nicely tailored pants and a lovely sweater. He had a shock of white hair, which he kept brushing back off his face when he spoke. When I told him I was a friend of Lola's, he welcomed me in and insisted on making me an espresso on a rather formidable machine he kept in a little kitchenette off the main room.
"Such a genteel lady," he said, when I told him Lola had laryngitis and was unable to call him. "I am so sorry to hear of her illness. Will you please assure her for me that she can start here whenever she feels well enough. She is not to worry."
"Thank you. I'll tell her." We sat sizing each other up for a few minutes, commenting on the weather, and sipping our espressos.
"She has seen a doctor, I hope," he said.
"Yes," I lied.
"You will forgive me for asking. . . . Would you like a biscuit? No? Another espresso? I am not, as you can see, a very accomplished host. I have been living alone for too long."
"Another espresso would be great," I said.
He got up, and soon the machine in his kitchen was wheezing away. He returned soon enough, and we went back to contemplating each other.
"There, you see, I am putting off asking you a question," he said at last. "An important one, which I found myself unable to ask Signora Leonard. There was no reason at all to ask her under the circumstances, which is to say we were discussing a position in my office. As you can see, I am somewhat reluctant, actually quite nervous, to ask you. Something, though, is compelling me to do so."
"Yes?" I said.
"Is she married?"
"No," I said.
"I thought not. There was no ring. But she is attached?"
"No, I don't think so. As far as I know, she's free as a bird."
He positively beamed. "I confess that is the answer I was hoping for."
"She likes you, too," I said. "Please don't tell her I told you."
"Of course not," he said gravely. "Nor, please, will you tell her I asked you that question. She is very interested in Lars Porsena."
"She certainly is," I said.
"I am as well. It seemed to me to be fate that brought us together."
"Actually, Signore Vitali," I said, "fate is keeping the two of you apart right this minute. I've been sitting here debating whether to tell you this, and I'm taking a big chance doing so, but Lola needs help, and even if she never forgives me for telling you, I'm determined to get it for her. Lola, Signora Leonard, I mean, is in jail. She has been quite wrongly accused of possessing a stolen Etruscan hydria. In fact, I was the one who had the hydria. She was keeping it for me and was bringing it so that I could give it to someone who was going to give it back to the museum, when she was caught with it, apparently because of an anonymous tip from a member of the public. The police do not believe her, nor do they believe me. She needs a lawyer, and she can't afford one. I am prepared to pay you to represent her." I had to stop to catch my breath.
"And this person who was going to return the hydria?" he said, waving away my attempt to get money out of my wallet.
"I can't tell you who he is," I said. "But I'm going to find him and make him come forward in person."
He raised bushy white eyebrows. "I see. You think he will corroborate this story?"
"I hope so," I said. "He likes his privacy, and not only that, but he seems to have closed a bank account that was supposed to cover my expenses. Needless to say, I'm going to try to get him to change his mind."
"Where is she?" he said, getting out of his chair and taking a jacket off a hook by the door.
"The carabinieri station in Arezzo," I said.
"I will go there now," he said. "Will you come with me?"
"No," I said. "I can't right now. But I'll be working to get Lola out of this mess, too." I meant it, too. Lola was big on getting what one deserved. Right now, she was getting what I deserved. I wasn't going to spend a lot of time beating myself up about why I was in the situation in the first place. But I was going to fix it somehow.
I hit the Autostrada del Sole once again and headed south to Rome. The next morning found me sitting under a market umbrella in a cafe in the Piazza della Rotunda, a lively spot, drinking coffee and reading the paper. Antonio had gotten his wish to be famous, unfortunately. There was a lurid account, as only the Italian papers can provide, of the man found hanging from the roof of a farmhouse in Tuscany. The man had been identified as an out-of-work actor by the name of Antonio Balducci. There was speculation it might be a mob hit of some kind, although the police were quoted as saying he'd hung himself. I kept thinking about the body, wondering how he would have done that. The owner of the farmhouse, Gino Mauro, who had, it was said, an ironclad alibi, given that he and his family were in New York at the time, was also said to be horrified at what had happened at his place. Mauro, reached by the intrepid reporter by telephone, said he did not know the dead man nor what he would be doing there.
I, too, was famous. A shopkeeper in Scrofiano had told police that a woman, English or American—there are some advantages to being an anonymous Canadian—had asked directions to the house the day before Antonio's body had been found. Police said yet another anonymous call had led them to the body, and police were looking not only for me but for whoever it was had telephoned. The call had been traced to a pay phone.
Lola, too, made the news. There was a page-three article that said that the carabinieri had been successful in tracking down a stolen Etruscan antiquity. They had someone in custody, the article said, and were now proceeding with an investigation into its disappearance. Further charges were expected to be laid. I hoped that didn't mean me.
I sat for awhile, thinking about all this: about Lola in jail, but particularly Antonio, swinging from a rope. At the same time, I was contemplating the edifice that dominated the piazza where I was sitting. Variously known as the Pantheon, the Church of Santa Maria dei Martiri, and the Rotunda, it is one hundred forty-two feet wide, and the same high, with twenty-five-foot walls, and an oculus, or opening, in the top of eighteen feet, and it is truly an impressive sight. Built originally in 27 B.C.E. by Marcus Agrippa, then rebuilt in the early second century by Hadrian, it is considered one of the architectural marvels of the world, and as I sat there, drinking my cappuccino, tourists by the hundreds were pouring through its doors. The only feature that interested me at that moment, however, was the inscription etched over the entranceway. M. AGRIPPA L.F.COS.TERTIUM. FECIT, it said, and FECIT was what I'd been able to see from Crawford Lake's bathroom window.